


draw it out

by twobirdsofficial



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Emotional Turmoil, Other, breakup sex? but in that they weren't the ones that broke up, kind of hurt/comfort except if the comfort part also hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 16:51:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11582217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twobirdsofficial/pseuds/twobirdsofficial
Summary: He’s been crying. He chucked his phone in a corner somewhere and cried over a couple beers; you can see tear stains on his face. You want to wipe them away, to wet a tissue or at least some balled-up toilet paper, but he’s so close to you now and it’s not like you imagined but his breath is hot on your face and it doesn’t feel like a joke, or like he’s going to get scared and pull away.





	draw it out

**Author's Note:**

> finally figured out how to write trixya (cool tip: just make it very sad and doomed). very slight warning for consent issues but it's more katya freaking out about whether she's somehow manipulated this situation into existence. no one is actually being taken advantage of except, like, my feelings.

It’s not like you thought it would be.

You don’t know what you thought it would be, to be fair. You’re never not picturing it, but it’s always distant, dreamlike. Or pornographic, more crude close-ups than personality. Sometimes both.

You know he tries not to fuck drunk so you feel a little like you’re taking advantage, even though he’s barely past tipsy and he’s gripping your hand like a lifeline.

He’s been crying. He chucked his phone in a corner somewhere and cried over a couple beers; you can see tear stains on his face. You want to wipe them away, to wet a tissue or at least some balled-up toilet paper, but he’s so close to you now and it’s not like you imagined but his breath is hot on your face and it doesn’t feel like a joke, or like he’s going to get scared and pull away.

Neither of you has crossed the rest of the distance. His forehead is almost touching yours and you’re afraid to move, still—afraid that you’ll wake up. You could live in this _almost_ for a long time.

The air is hot and thick. It’s so late it’s almost early and everything feels hazy, and the breeze from the open window barely touches you. A group of people goes by, heading home from a party, and their laughter threads its way up to the apartment.

Then it’s silent again. You surge together at the same time, and it aches—kissing him when he’s just _him._ No lipstick, and you can feel the stubble of his hair beneath your fingers. You try not to bite down, not now, because he’s gentler than you and it’s not a fantasy anymore; he’s real, here, under your hands.

(He wanted to marry this one.

He always wants to marry them. But he bought a ring, this time.)

Your breathing starts to get uneven, or maybe it always was. He’s nudging at you, his nose just below your earlobe, and he kisses you there on the side of the neck more softly than you can comprehend, more softly than you think you’ve ever been kissed.

Your hands find purchase at his hips. He pulls back to help you get his shirt over his head, and you half-expected that he wouldn’t look at you through any of this but he makes eye contact for a split second and your stomach drops with the tenderness of it.

It’s too hot to be so close. Your hands grow unsteady and he helps with your shirt and then you’re kissing again, sweat-sticky and shaking as you shift onto his lap, straddling his hips. He groans, soft, and sucks your lip into his mouth.

“Ka—” he starts to say, and then: “Brian.”

You kind of wish he hadn’t.

You rock your hips against him, a slow, rolling motion that makes you feel desperate, drunk on his misery. He finds your neck again and he’s feather-light, giving kisses you barely feel until your body reacts to them. If it’s possible to be hotter than you already are then you manage it, keening toward him involuntarily, arching into him so your chest and his chest are flush together.

When he pulls back his skin sticks to yours, and he lets out a watery laugh. “God.”

The room is still and silent except for the faint hum of the fan. You chuckle along with him and it's the first moment during all of this that you remember: It's _him_ and he's your best friend and he loves you, even if he might not love you like this.

You wrap your fingers around the back of his neck and pull him in. He tastes like water and salt, maybe tears, and the faint aftertaste of beer. You know you always taste like cigarettes and you wonder if he hates it, if he's tolerating the kiss for your sake. If he's too sad to protest.

The fear seizes you out of nowhere and you want to ask _Do you want this, do you want me,_ but you’re afraid of the answer.

You pull away eventually, to catch your breath, and he leans in and tongues the hollow of your neck. Your head falls back, gasping. You’re hard against his stomach and he’s rocking into you and there’s nothing you can do from this angle except let him touch you, hand bent between your bodies; it’s all haphazard friction and your moan feels loud in the night air and you ache, ache, ache.

You reach for him, unbutton his pants and try not to black out from the way he moves against you. He buries his face in your shoulder at your touch and you think he might be crying again until he bites down, harder than you expected, and you almost laugh in a rush of affection.

Pulling back to make space, you spit into your palm and reach for him, and he sighs, groans, grips your thighs with blunt fingernails. He finishes fast, like he’s been waiting for this, and in another life you’d tease him and he’d chuckle with easy grace, but: it’s four a.m. on a shitty couch in a Brooklyn sublet and he’s gasping in your hands, and you think you feel tears wetting your cheeks.

Jesus. You’d think at least one of you could keep it the fuck together.

“I can—” he starts to say. “If you want…”

His hands are still on your legs and you shake your head. “I’m good,” you say. “I’m okay.” Your stomach seizes before you say the next thing, but you choke it out—“Can I kiss you again?” And he nods and you rock into him, hands resting gentle on his lower back.

You know without knowing that this is your last kiss. You linger. He doesn’t taste like beer anymore, just like _him,_ and you it feels like you’re consuming him (tongue, lips, teeth) and you don’t stop until you feel like you’re going numb.

He looks at you, with a sad half-smile that makes your chest hurt.

“Do you want to go to bed?” you ask.

He nods.

“Do you want some water?”

His smile crooks a little. “Yeah.”

You fill a glass from the tap and follow him into the bedroom. You curl around him and his hips fit in yours, and your stomach aches with how badly you want morning not to come.


End file.
